Homesteaders and Demons
by Bounty Money
Summary: Dean, Sam and Thomas (OC) must defeat a demon horde while in nineteenth century "Minnesota" ...and the closest bar is a three-day wagon ride away. Walnut Grove won't see it comin'. MUAHAHAHA! Rated M for language and violence. Season 1 LHotP/Season 2 Supernatural
1. Prologue: The Strangest Case of Mind Fog

_**Author's Note: **__ I was out of the loop for a while. Sorry, readers. _

_Went back over the original story and was severely dissatisfied, so I started over. _

_Using the 'Supernatural' way of naming episodes, I use song or movie titles for the chapter headings, except for the Prologue. That one's my own thing. _

_The t.v. characters and the universes aren't mine; they belong to Eric Kripke, and whoever owns the rights to The Little House on the Prairie._

_I'm not making any money off this and all that other legal mumbo-jumbo__._

**Prologue: The Strangest Cases of Mind Fog**

_The Aether, Nowhere/Everywhere_

A deck of cards sat in the middle of the table.

"Okay, here's how it works; highest draw gets to decide the main characters and the main bad guys out of the names we've drawn from the hat. Second highest picks the universe we dump them into, third one picks the situation that brings the good guys' team together, fourth draw picks the location, and the loser picks between first and second person storytelling and which character it's told from."

* * *

_Madison, Wisconsin, USA_

The first-story window was open; a blanket serving as a makeshift curtain fluttered slightly as wisps of fog scudded through the screen, floating toward the oddly shaped lump on the bed.

A smallish figure was sprawled on the mattress face down, drooling onto the pillow and snoring loudly on the exhale, feet hanging off the edge.

The fog became thick in the bedroom, now moving independently of the draft as it slowly cocooned its target.

The sunlight dispersed the lingering mist in the morning. On the bed was a tangle of damp sheets and a note that read:

We do not own rights to this character.

We promise to put it back as soon as we've finished playing.

Kisses,

The Fan Fiction Multiverse.

* * *

_A Dank Alley, Some Random City in the U.S._

"Fuck no, I don't do that shit for free!" The woman raked her fingers across the john's face. "Get lost!"

There was a flash of light, and the pop-whoosh of air rushing to fill a sudden void.

Grabbing her blouse over her exposed chest, the woman staggered out of the alley, one shoe dragging over the pavement as it trailed after her by the ankle strap. "Oh, my God! Oh my GAAWD!" Unaware of the scene she was making for the late-night pedestrians, she tottered drunkenly toward the nearest church. "That's fucking **IT**. I'm becoming a God-damned NUN right the fuck now!"

He wasn't sure what to say to the disheveled, scantily dressed young woman standing in front of him. "I'm, um, glad that you feel drawn to devoting your life to the Lord, miss, but…. uh…Methodists don't **have** nuns."

* * *

_Somewhere in a desert valley _

The fourteen men leapt from their horses and ran toward the tunnel passage, whooping. The bank robberies had been a wild success, and pretty soon they'd be counting out their haul.

* * *

_Outside of a rest stop on U.S. Highway 94 West, United States_

Dean stared up at the stars. Sometimes it felt like he could stand up and jump straight into that vastness. Too bad gravity kept him stuck to the world.

_Watch out for Sammy. Save him. You have to watch out for Sammy. Save him. Save him, Dean, or you're going to have to kill him._

"You okay?" Sam asked, coming out of the rest stop.

"Huh?"

"Need me to drive?"

Dean shrugged. "Sure."

"You've been quiet."

He got into the passenger's side and shut the door. "Just got out of the hospital and Dad's dead. Fuck else you want me to say?"

"Right." Sam climbed into the truck and pulled his own door closed. "What was I thinking."

Dean didn't bother responding to the dig. It was hard enough to wrap his head around the fact that he was even vertical after…. The Doctors had wanted to do scans on him; the brain damage and internal injuries had disappeared way too fast for explanation. They'd even shown him the tests they'd done right after he'd been admitted. A huge blank space; the cold, gray unlit parts, except for the pale orange flickers around the base of his skull. _I was __**brain dead**__._ He shuddered slightly. His ribs were still bruised to hell, and there were all kinds of cuts and abrasions all over. It hurt to breathe sometimes.

"Bobby said we could stay with him until you're back on your feet. He's got the Impala on the yard, so you can fix her."

"I remember, Sam."

"I know. I just…," Sam kept his eyes on the road. "You want to listen to some music?"

"Have a headache." Something shimmered on the side of the road, catching his attention. "Did you see-?"

"What?"

Dean rubbed his eyes. "Probably just tired." There was another flicker. "Or not."

The road suddenly seemed to warp ahead of them.

"SHIT," Sam's voice sounded like it was coming from behind a wall. "What the fu-."

* * *

_The Aether, Nowhere/Everywhere_

Looking at the pieces of paper on the table, and having drawn a two of clubs, the loser of the draw rolled her eyes at the idiotic choices of how the protagonists met up and the central location. Scowling, she pulled one of the names toward her. "First Person from this guy's perspective."

A collective groan of dismay went around the table.


	2. Chapter 1: The Hardest Mile

_**Author's Note: **__ I was out of the loop for a while. Sorry, readers. _

_Went back over the original story and was severely dissatisfied, so I started over. _

_The t.v. characters and the universes aren't mine; they belong to Eric Kripke, and whoever owns the rights to The Little House on the Prairie._

_I'm not making any money off this and all that other legal mumbo-jumbo__._

_Also, I sincerely apologize to any readers who are actually __**from**__ Ireland. The 'accent' is based on what I've heard on t.v. and in movies, so it's not in any way accurate. _

_On the other hand, in LhotP, there were a couple of "Irish" characters that were so overblown that it probably fits in with the 'Prairie universe'._

**Chapter 1: ****The Hardest Mile**

Ka-KOW!

I flattened myself to the ground and started to crawl. One of those huge, Civil War looking tents was about to come crashing down on me, so I scrabbled out of it as fast as I could.

BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!

What the **fuck** was happening? Last thing I remembered was going to sleep in my apartment, and then the shooting started. When I'd sat up, to grab my phone and call the cops, I wasn't in my bed anymore, and-.

"Jaysus! Please don't shoot! Ple-."

Ka-KOW!

I heard panicked gasping, and then a low wheezing gurgle. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fucking **FUCK**.

"Push the runners back toward the middle of the camp!"

Ka-KOW!

A little kid was crying behind me, so I turned.

There was a boy, maybe seven or eight years old, huddling against a crate.

Jumping up, I started to rush over, hoping to get the little dude away from the chaos.

Somebody moved between us.

BLAM!

The boy jerked a little bit, then slumped to the side with a bullet hole in his forehead. Blood and gray-white clumps smeared the wooden slats behind him.

I was too far into the run to stop, so I barreled ahead, plowing into his murderer. The man went down, but I managed to leap clear.

Click. "Son of fuckin' bitch!" Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. "Damn it!"

* * *

Ka-KOW! BLAM! Ka-KOW! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

I'd read once that bullets sound like pissed off wasps when they come close to your head. Thought it was just exaggerative bullshit.

It's not.

* * *

I didn't stop running, even though I couldn't hear the rifles and pistols anymore; my brain had gone into autopilot mode and kept me moving for as long as my body was physically able. When it couldn't, I was staggering into a thicket of bushes and downed trees beside the road. I buried myself into the leaf-litter, gasping for breath. Sheer animal instinct told me to hide. Hide and watch. Hide and… just fucking **hide**.

My senses were hyperaware, every little creak and snap in the woods had me jumping. I could smell my own sweat, blood, the burned gunpowder. Tears were streaming down my face; I couldn't even see anymore.

* * *

As the adrenaline wore off, my body shook uncontrollably and I curled into a ball, trying not to scream as the panic attack took its turn with me. For some fucked up reason, the lyrics to 'Sound of Silence' kept going through my head, so I focused on them.

* * *

I froze in the bushes as an ox-pulled wagon rattled past. About a dozen men were riding in the back; some were holding rifles, while others were passing a bottle around between themselves. One of them held up a bloody piece of a brown haired scalp. "Jaysus, no, they're jus' wee lads," he mock-screamed. Whatever he said after that was too low to hear, but it made them laugh.

They were fucking **laughing**.

* * *

The wagon had been gone for a long time; the sun was almost overhead.

Crawling out of the thicket, vomit spewed into the grass as I retched. Taking deep breaths didn't help, it just made more bile come up in thick, disgusting strings.

Hanging my head between my knees, covering the back of my head with my arms, I started to cry; the murder of that little boy was looping over and over and over. How could anybody even **do** that? What **possible** justification was there to massacre people in the middle of the night?

I fell to my side, curled into a ball with my arms wrapped around my middle, and sobbed myself empty.

* * *

I was so thirsty.

The sun made everything shimmer weirdly.

Tired.

Stupid flies wouldn't stop tickling my face. Why couldn't they just let me sleep?

"Shit! Help me sit him up a little," somebody said; his voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.

My head and shoulders were lifted off the ground slightly, and then a hard, metallic…something… was pressed against my lower lip. Water started to dribble into my mouth, making me cough; my throat didn't remember what to do at first.

"That's it, kid," the second voice came from somewhere behind my head. "Slow down, dude, you'll drown him."

* * *

Something popped, scaring me awake. "No, don' shoot!" The words coming out of my mouth didn't sound right. "Don' shoot!"

"Whoa, easy, nobody's shooting."

Rubbing my eyes, it took me a few seconds to process who was looming over me. "Aaah!" I tried to crab-walk backward, but smacked my head on a tree.

"Calm down, I'm not gonna hurt you."

All I could do was sit there, rigid from sheer terror, and stare.

"You're safe, okay?" He put his hands up and sat back. "See? I'm not gonna hurt you."

I quickly looked around, taking in the fire and a few blankets spread out less than five yards from the road. I was at a campsite? How? Since when?

"Hi," the guy pushed his hair out of his face and tried to give me an encouraging smile. "I'm Sam Winchester. What's your name?" Why in the hell was he talking like I was a kindergartener?

I needed to get away. Pushing myself to my feet, I tried to run. And then fell. My legs didn't want to work.

"Whoa," Sam caught me. "You're gonna need to chill out for a while; you're in pretty rough shape."

I pushed his hands away once I was seated back on the blankets. "Don' feckin' touch me!" My heart was thudding too loud in my head, and it was hard to breathe all of a sudden. What the hell was up with my voice? Sounded like I had an accent, and was much higher pitch than normal. Maybe it was just the panic.

"Hey, slow your breathing down; you're hyperventilating." Sam inched a little closer, but kept his hands up where I could see them. "Take some deep breaths and try to hold them, alright?"

* * *

"He's terrified," Sam was saying in a hushed voice. "Tried to bolt as soon as he woke up."

Opening my eyes, I watched the flicker of the embers. My body felt like it'd been scraped raw.

"He say anything?" a second man asked, poking a stick into the fire.

"Just, 'don't shoot,' and 'don't fuckin' touch me.'"

"That's ominous."

Sam looked toward me. "Find anything up the road?"

The other guy shook his head. "Only where he was hiding; road was too dry for him to leave many footprints."

* * *

I sat up, unable to go back to sleep.

"We wake you?" Sam asked.

I shook my head.

"Thirsty?"

Looking at them both, still not sure what to make of this new development, I nodded.

"Hungry?"

It took me a few seconds to figure out if the idea of food would make me sick or not. It didn't, so I nodded again.

"I'll, uh, see what we got for ya." Sam watched me, looking concerned. "Dean, are there still beans left?"

Dean pulled a skillet over toward him. "Some." He started scooping them onto a tin plate. "Think you can keep these down?"

I shrugged, staring into the campfire.

* * *

I smooshed the beans into a gritty paste, eating slowly so my stomach could handle it.

"It's probably stupid to admit," Sam said, looking up at the tree branches above us, "but I like to watch birds." He gave me a weird half-smile. "My brother and I don't really get to stop and enjoy the scenery very often." He stared like he was trying to be a therapist or something; too intense. "How about you? Ever sit around and just watch nature?"  
For a conversation starter, that was awkward. Unfortunately, no matter how much I wanted to tell him to stop trying so hard, I couldn't get the words out. I had to settle for turning around so my back was to him and hunching over my food.

"Look, I know you probably think I'm being nosy, but it really will help to get whatever you're feeling out of your system."

Getting to my hands and knees, I crawled away to put a little more distance between us. My body ached too much, so I didn't get that far, but Sam got the point.

It was a rude move, I know, but it felt like all my nerve endings were tingling and forcing a conversation would make it worse.

"I'm gonna go scout ahead, so…" He got to his feet, looked down at me for a few uncomfortable seconds, then shook his head before turning to start walking down the road. "Dean's around…somewhere. He'll be back pretty soon."

* * *

"Got some stuff you might wanna take a look at." Dean was going through two haversacks, taking inventory or something. He hadn't asked me where Sam had gone. "You can read, right?"

I stared at the rocks that'd been stacked around the campfire and nodded. A huge part of me wanted to ask what the fuck kind of idiot he took me for, in asking me if I could read or not. Given that they'd just saved my ass from dehydrating to death, that wasn't a polite way to be thinking, though.

"Don't ask me what the hell any of it means, 'cause I have no clue, but you should see these two things first." He handed over what looked to be a letter and a photograph. "Sam had 'em in his bag."

I took my time looking at the picture; it showed a family of three who had all been dressed in what appeared to be prison uniforms. The drab clothes hung on gaunt bodies, and the woman had a tight grip on the man's arm, as well as on the shoulder of their son.

Seeing the boy almost made me drop the photo; an exact, much younger double of me was staring toward the camera as if he was afraid the photographer was going to kill him. Kid looked to be about five or six. "Th-tha's me," I managed to croak.

"You should read the letter, or the rest won't make much sense." Dean kept on sorting the stuff on his blanket.

I skimmed the letter. The gist was that Dean and Samuel Winchester were supposed to meet their cousin when his boat came into the port of Milwaukee, and then the three of them were to meet up with the brothers' dad over in Deadwood. Said cousin was a guy named Thomas Scanlan, aka me. Go figure.

Apparently, Thomas had been mistakenly shipped off from Ireland six months earlier than he was supposed to, was left to wander Boston on his own, before being rounded up and sent into the 'wilds' of Minnesota with a group of kids on an Orphan Train.

I couldn't help rolling my eyes as I read the rest of it. The kid had gotten 'adopted' by a cruel farmer, ran away, and then found work with a railroad crew.

What a load of Dickensian bullshit!

"Here." He threw a newspaper and a folded sheet toward me, "Found these in my bag, too. There's some circled stuff in there."

I flipped through the pages to look; an ad read: 'The August Queen will be arriving in New York, from Ireland, on March 28, 1871.' The name of the ship sounded familiar; a geneology thing my grandma had told me about, probably.

"Second one's a crew roster; there's supposed to be a camp or something a dozen miles up the road from here. No point in going all the way there anymore, though."

Unfolding said roster, I saw that my name had been circled. Then I saw the age listed next to it. "**What**? I'm **twelve**?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You don't know how old you are?"

"Las' night," I said, "I went ta bed in me apartment, in twenny-sixteen." I picked up a pebble and threw it out toward the bushes. "B'fore fallin' asleep, I were **t'irty-foive**. Then I wo-," remembering made me queasy and I had to swallow down the urge to start screaming. "An' then I got woke up by…. By…" Squeezing my eyes shut against the welling tears, I stopped talking.

"Huh, that… that really sucks, man. Sorry." He reached over and took back the picture and the papers. "Me and Sam… we, um," Dean cleared his throat. "We were in a car accident. After the hospital, and…and everything, we were driving to a friend's house. Kinda blacked out, or something, and woke up here."

"Sorry fer yer loss," I muttered, flicking a bean-skin off the plate.

* * *

We were quiet for a while; I was too busy examining myself for injuries and sorting out my thoughts to pay attention to whatever Dean was up to.

Hilarious as they were, based on the gag-reels and bonus features of the DVD sets, the cast and crew of the show Supernatural wouldn't go through so much trouble to set up something this traumatic and elaborate just to screw with some random fan they don't even know fucking exists.

Besides, there was no way that science had developed a way to de-age and gender swap somebody back to their pre-teens. I tentatively peeked down the front of my pants to confirm that last thing again. No matter how many times I looked, it was still all there. Sweet!

After a while, the only conclusions I could think of were that I'd either gone insane, was dreaming, or all of this was actually happening.

Dreaming was out of the question. Even my most vivid ones don't include textures, smell, or taste.

As far as psychotic breaks went, I had a feeling those didn't exactly involve a whole lot of self-aware introspection or analysis.

My senses and instincts were screaming that it was all real, and I realized that twelve-year-olds don't generally have thoughts that included words like 'introspective self-analysis.' When I was twelve, I'd mostly pretended to be Leonardo the Ninja Turtle leading pirate raids against aliens through the woods with an imaginary army. That made me snort a laugh.

Dean threw a log on the fire, breaking into my reverie "You okay over there?"

I shrugged.

"Okay." He sat back against one of the trees, watching the road. "I'll try to keep Sam from buggin' you." Dean stared down at his pile of stuff, frowning. "Saw you try to get away from him earlier. Dude means well, and everything, but he doesn't really get it. When, you know, when you can't…." He gestured vaguely at his throat.

"Ye've gone mute b'fore, too?" Holy shit, my voice sounded young.

"Couple times. Wanted to talk, but…" With a sigh, he let the thought trail off there.

"Ye din't ever tell 'im?"

"Hell no." He looked at me, almost surprised, then shook his head. "Takes one to know one, right?"

I nodded. Picking up a stick, I peeled at the bark.

"Which parent?"

"Me mam." I heard a stick crack to my right and looked toward the sound; didn't see anyone, or thing, and shrugged it off as regular 'woods' noises. "Yerself?"

"Dad; God knows I loved the guy, but…" Dean sat up to drop a second log onto the fire to kick it up a little. "Sam should be back pretty soon; hopefully he's found some sign of civilization up the road."

I crawled a little closer to the fire.

"How you feeling?"

"Not as bad as earlier."

He gave me a quick look-over. "Might just need a good night's sleep, but we'll take it slow tomorrow to be on the safe side."

"Okay."

* * *

Sam came walking over from the woods. "Hey."

Dean looked back at him. "Dude, what took you?"

"There's a town up the road."

"And?"

He hesitated. "You're not gonna believe where we are."

"Spill already."

Sam had a deeply embarrassed look on his face. "Walnut Grove."

"Doesn't ring any bells."

"Um, you remember that English report I had to do in fifth grade," Sam asked, sitting down, "where my class compared the differences between non-fiction and fiction?"

"Not even a little."

"It was that time my teacher gave me a bunch of episodes of 'Little House on the Prairie' to watch."

Dean groaned. "**Please** tell me you're fucking kidding."

Sam winced. "Sorry."

* * *

I stared at the flames, trying to hypnotize myself to sleep.

"You should've **told** me, man."

"Don't wanna talk about it, Sam." Dean was on his side, a blanket pulled half way up over his head. "Ever."

"Dad **abused** you, and you don't wanna talk about it?" Getting no answer, Sam huffed. "I don't get it; why don't you ever tell me what's going on with you?"

"What part of 'let it go,' do you not get?"

"Dean, you went **mute**!"

"Yeah, and?"

"What did he **do** to you?"

"You shouldn't have even been listening in the first place, Sam; that was a **private** conversation."

"He was **talking**. I didn't want him to clam up when he saw me coming."

"Just 'cause a guy's a little quiet and don't yak on and on about his feelings and shit to you, doesn't give you the right to eavesdrop."

"Why'd he start talking to you?"

"Gee, I wonder."

Conversations like this, in the show, were what I related to; Sam was 'Family, Friends and Community' and Dean was me.

* * *

Listening to them bicker was getting old, so I tried to make sense of the things running through my head. With a heavy sigh, I watched a meteorite streak across the sky in the middle of the Big Dipper.

Why send us to Little House on the Prairie?

Why make me 'Irish?' 'Cause of my last name?

Or a little kid?

Why involve **me** in the first place?

That was the part that really needed to be answered **because it made no logical fucking sense**. I was the part of the equation that didn't fit. Shivering slightly, I wondered which character might have the power to do this head-trip, and a surge of anger rose through my head.

Fuck.

I was so **stupid**! Why hadn't I thought of them sooner?

"Get yer feckin' arse down here, Gabriel, or I'll kick it so hard ye'll be pissin' outta yer Chroist-feckin' tear ducts." I ground the words between my molars before spitting them up toward the Milky Way under my breath. Better to cross off the least scary one from the list. Not that I actual-.

There was a flutter of wings in the woods, just beyond the light of the campfire. "You'll make me piss out of my Christ-fucking tear ducts?" Gabriel asked, coming around the tree. "You need to wash that mouth out with industrial grade cleaners, kiddo."

Oh **fuck**. I sat up warily, cringing. "Ye heard me?" Aaand I sounded like a squeaky toy.

"Uh, **yeah**." He put a finger in his ear and rubbed. "Think you ruptured something in there."

Looking at Sam and Dean, seeing that they were completely stilled, I sighed. "Yer froze 'em."

He snorted. "**Duh**."

I tugged my blanket tighter around my shoulders and stared down toward my feet. "Did…" The words seemed to stick in my gut. "Didyesendushere?" The sentence came out in one breath.

"Ha! Oh, God, do I **wish**." Gabriel popped a caramel into his mouth with a wide grin, looked at me with his head cocked to the side, then crouched to his knees. "Hang on, that's not your real accent," He squinted, holding eye contact for way too long. "Man, somebody got you **good**. I can't undo any of it." He scratched the back of his head. "Damn. That's some **seriously** powerful work."

Oh, **shit**. In my regular life, before getting zapped through the wormhole, or whatever, I'd been born female and was on testosterone. I'd also been trying to save up for my reassignment surgeries. Problem is, angels work for God, and according to the Bible, transgendered people like me are an abomination to be killed on sight with a righteous and terrible fury. I was so scared that my lower lip was starting to quiver and tears made the back of my eyes burn.

"Whoa, whoa, relax." Stepping back, he put his hands up. "Don't worry, I don't smite."

"Yer readin' me t'oughts?"

"Uh, hellooo," Gabriel pointed to himself, "which one of us is the angel, here?"

"Why'd I get lifted outta me bed, dropped in th' middle of a feckin' shoot-out, an'…" I flailed my hands around vaguely, "Why?" My voice shook, making me sound pathetic. "Th' men was gonna kill me, an'…and I saw….why'd I get put here? I'm not… 'm not even important." I wiped my forearm across my eyes.

"Whoa, whoa, Thomas. Easy, kid. You know me from the show, right?"

I nodded, sniffling. Now that I'd started crying, I couldn't stop.

"Then you know that I would **never** do something like that." He tilted my chin so I was looking at him. "It was unnecessarily cruel."

I looked away.

"I'm the Trickster, remember? Not a heartless monster." Gabriel sighed. "I'll be looking into it. Funny as it is to see those two," he jerked his head toward frozen-in-place Sam and Dean, "scramble around in this kind of a scenario…" he frowned and put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "Look, Sam and Dean might be idiots sometimes, but they're good guys to have on your side."

"I know. I watch 'em on me television," I muttered. "And yerself as well."

"Well, **duh.** I'm gorgeous." He smirked. "Look, you're pretty far ahead of their timeline; they haven't even met Ellen and Jo yet. Don't…"

"Paranoid as they feckin' are? No way." I said. "Fat load o'good it'll do me here, anyway."

Gabriel snorted, then cocked his head like he'd sensed something. "I gotta go; whoever's behind this doesn't want me here. I'll give you updates in dreamland if I can; it's the best I can do." He snapped his fingers and disappeared, at the same time unfreezing Dean and Sam.

Unnerved, I blinked and went back to staring at flames.

* * *

_The night was freezing and, huddled between my parents, I tried to huddle closer to Mam. _

"_We'll be f-." _

_BLAM!_

"_DA," I scrambled to my feet, looking around for them. They weren't there anymore, I was alone by the road and something was coming! "Da! Where are you? I'm scared!"_

"_You should be," a voice said, coming from far over my head. _

_I looked up and tried to back away, but I ran into something._

_A man pointed a gun at me. _

_BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! _

* * *

I scrambled backward. "NO," putting my hands up to stop bullets was a stupid reflex, but…but somebody had grabbed my wrists and wasn't letting go. "No, please, don' hurt me!"

"Whoa, it's alright, nobody's gonna hurt you."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I had to get away from…from whoever was grabbing me. "I'm sorry!"

"Thomas, it's Dean. Come on, man, open your eyes."

I went stiff.

"I'm letting go of your hands now, okay? Only grabbed them so you wouldn't hurt yourself. You hearing me, Thomas?" Dean sounded worried.

"I he-hear ye." The words were hard to get past my throat.

"I'm gonna back off, let you wake up some more."

"NO!" Grabbing at his shirt, I had this overwhelming, irrational fear that if he left me alone I'd get shot like I had been in the dream. "Please, don' go away, don' go."

"Whoa, okay, I won't."

* * *

Huddled under the blanket, I didn't want to go back to sleep. The crackle of the fire, a pop-hiss of a log, and the smell of wood-smoke were relaxing though. Dean was still sitting next to me, letting me hold onto his hand.

"**Talk** to him," Sam was whispering at his brother. "He needs to confront the trau-."

"Don't pretend you know what he needs." Dean shifted slightly.

"Dude, I took three classes of psychology." He sounded way too smug about that.

Pulling the blanket up over my shoulders, I tried to hold my breath for a minute. I wasn't bawling anymore, but the crying had given me hiccups.

"So? You were gonna be a lawyer, not a shrink."

I pushed a corner of the blanket from my face so I could look up at Sam. "I too-took psy-psychology classes, too."

"What?" Sam stared down at me.

I picked at a loose thread. "Got a A in 'em."

"How?" Sam looked at Dean, who just shrugged. "You're **twelve**."

"I'm **t'irty-foive**." I yawned, hiccupped a couple more times, and pressed my back against Dean's leg. For some reason, it seemed safer having direct contact.

Mentally, I felt split in half. My thirty-five-year-old 'self,' or whatever, was being overridden by the instincts and physiology of a mostly prepubescent child's nervous system. Trusted adults meant safety and protection, especially after a severe trauma, and kids cling when they're scared.

It was even weirder because even when I'd been twelve the **first** time, I'd never trusted **anyone** enough to be that clingy.

"**You** took psychology." Sam said, clearly not believing me.

I nodded.

"Which ones?"

Scowling at his tone, I said, "Intro, developmental an' educational."

"Uh huh."

"Firs' t'ing we learn is it's re-real common fer shtudents ta be self-diagnosin' themselfs an' others." I felt a sudden urge to give knock him down a peg and couldn't resist saying, "What yer doin' is against th' code o' professional conduct, by th' way."

Dean laughed. "You serious?"

I nodded; that speech pretty much exhausted what little energy I had for talking.

Sam looked about to argue, but then looked down. "Fuck."

"Dude, you just got schooled by a **tween**. That's gotta hurt."

"Shut up."

"Well, I **did** tell you he's a hell of a lot older than he looks, Sammy."

* * *

The smell of overcooked beans and campfire woke me. That, and a leaf stem tickling inside my nose. Sputtering and batting it away from my face, I tried to sit up and got tangled in a pile of blankets.

Dean laughed. "Morning."

I rubbed my eyes against the smoke and yawned.

Sam came out from the trees, nearly scaring me to death, and dropped an armload of sticks next to the fire. "Hey, Thomas."

"Hi." I still wasn't used to the sound of my own voice.

"How far is it to Walnut Grove?" Dean asked, stirring the food.

"About three miles."

"So an hour and a half."

"Yeah." Sam looked over at me. "You up for that?"

I shrugged, then got to my feet. Felt like all the water in my body had decided to build a city right in my bladder. Looking around the campsite, I grimaced, and then waddled into the trees behind me.

"He must really gotta go," Sam said.

"Dude, we made him drink practically both canteens last night. It's caught up." Dean laughed. "Careful which leaves you use out there, Thomas."

* * *

"Feckin' buttons," I muttered, still trying to get the fly of my pants closed. "How come they gotta have so many?"

Dean looked up from his haversack. "You'll have to cut back on your swearing when we get to town."

"I know." Focusing on the last one, I finally managed to get it fastened. "Me clothes stink."

"We're all pretty rank; don't worry about it." He kicked some dirt over the steaming embers of the campfire. "Almost ready to hit the road?"

"I guess so."

"Good."

"Um… What're we gonna say ta people when we get there?"

Dean paused. "What d'you mean?"

"They'll arsk a lotta questions." I gestured to my bare feet, the stinking mess of my clothes, and then to the cut on his forehead. "Why yer been beat up, how come Sam's got th' black eye, an' why've two grown American men got a boggy Irish boy along."

"Boggy…?" He shook his head. "That's…actually a really good question."

Sam glanced up from his own haversack. "Huh. We didn't even think about that."

Dean eventually shrugged. "We'll just say we got robbed a few days ago."

"We also have this letter about you being our cousin, or whatever," Sam waved said paper in his hand. "Plus there's that picture and everything else."

I'd forgotten about those. "Oh yeah."

"Anything else is none of their fuckin' business," Dean added.

Sam got to his feet, stuffing the letter back into this haversack as he did. "Guess that's it then."


	3. Chapter 2: Shelter From the Storm

_**Author's Note:**__ the t.v. characters and the universes aren't mine; they belong to Eric Kripke, and whoever owns the rights to The Little House on the Prairie. I'm not making any money off this and all that other legal mumbo-jumbo__._

_Ahem… the teasing of Sam later is all in good fun._

_Also, when I was twelve, I actually did try to "Moses" my little sister downstream in revenge once. _

_She had wanted my second Pop-Tart, and I wouldn't give it to her, so she started crying and told our mom that I'd hit her. _

_I got The Wooden Spoon, and she got my Pop-Tart. _

_Ego, the Moses treatment._

**Chapter Two: Shelter from the Storm**

We stood there, looking down the hill at Walnut Grove, Minnesota-as-interpreted-by-Californians. Minnifornia. Or Calisota. Whichever.

"Come on guys, it can't be **that** bad." Sam rolled his eyes at us.

Dean and I were literally dragging our feet as the road brought us closer and closer.

"**Why did you have to say that?**" Dean looked at his brother in utter horror. "You do realize that we're **jinxed** now, right?"

"Oh, for fuck sake." Stalking ahead, Sam mumbled something under his breath.

"This can't be happenin'," I said.

A sense of dread crept up the back of my throat and sat there as we walked over the wooden planks of the bridge that led into the 'town.' All seven or eight buildings of it. A 'pot hole' would be more of an accurate descriptor for Walnut Grove; at least in my opinion.

"What's that **reek**?" Dean asked, putting his hand over his mouth and nose.

Sam was looking a bit queasy too.

I wrinkled my nose at the smell of cow and horse shit, blood, and rot. After a quick look at the livery stable across from the blacksmith's, seeing a covered pit and four or five barrels near the barn, I put a couple things together. "Th' blacksmith does a tannery." FYI, I kinda had a weird life **way** before getting plopped into the middle of a massacre.

Dean gagged. "I'm gonna hurl."

Sam tried breathing out of his mouth; didn't look like it was working for him.

I skirted around a steaming dark brown pile on the ground. "Fresh horse apples."

"Augh," Sam grumbled. "Who just leaves animal shit in the road like that?"

* * *

It was still early in the morning; the Mercantile and Hansen's Mill weren't even open for business yet, so we sat on the benches that'd been built around the tree in the middle of the town road.

Sam had found some money in the bottom of his haversack, so Dean and I quickly checked our own pockets.

I only had on a shirt, suspenders, pants and old-timey underwear, so all I found was a piece of old string tied with clusters of knots and two little twigs fashioned into a cross dangling from the end of it. A homemade rosary?

"Yahtzee," Dean said, pulling out a handful of coins. "How much we got?"

Sam counted his. "I've got…a dollar and ten cents."

"Fifty…. Seventy. I've got eighty-three cents."

"Great," Sam let out a frustrated huff. "Means we'll have to get jobs before we can figure out what the hell is going on."

Hearing him say that surprised me; the kind of work available in 'Little House on the Prairie' probably wasn't what they were used to doing. There was only, like, one farm episode in the whole series and it only involved gutting a hellhound, so….

"Find **work**?" Dean asked.

"You see any other options?" Sam asked, getting to his feet. "In case you haven't noticed, we can't exactly hustle a bar and then breeze out of town like we normally do.

"First of all, it's **eighteen seventy-one**," he started ticking his next few points off on his fingers, "Second, we don't have a car; third, no internet or even **electricity** exists out here yet; and we got a kid with us."

"I'm not a kid!"

They both looked down at me.

"Well I'm **not**."

Sam crossed his arms. "We know that, Thomas, but you can't exactly go around telling everyone else your real age."

I sat down on the bench, slouching. My feet didn't even touch the ground. "Foine."

Dean cleared his throat. "Where are we supposed to even **find** anything, man? I only know how to fix cars, hunt monsters, play poker and hustle pool." He shook his head. "Plus, I'm still not a hundred percent from the…the accident. Fuckin' bruised ribs, remember?"

"We'll…um…," Sam sank back on the bench. "Okay, good point."

I swung my feet back and forth. "Am I gonna have ta get a job, too?" I asked.

Dean shook his head. "You're too young." He raised his hand before I could say anything. "Against the law."

I looked over to Sam. "Not here it's not, right?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "The Child Labor Act won't be written for another…um...forty or whatever years. Not until Teddy Roosevelt gets elected President, anyway."

"You're shittin' me." Dean looked at Sam, then me. "Why're you asking?"

"I know way more'n I should fer their school," I turned toward the church building, watching as Miss Beadle brought her buggy to a stop. "Herself'd wanna know too much off us; 'specially if I accidentally say somethin' wrong 'bout stuff I learnt in science or hist'ry that's too much ahead o'this toime period." It's highly unusual for me to be so chatty with strangers; I clammed up, unsure if that was a good thing or not. When really comfortable with people, I can get a little pedantic and talky sometimes. Maybe it was from watching the series that made me feel more assertive around them.

"Much as I hate to say it, he's right, Dean; a kid getting a job to help his cousins earn money won't attract any attention. Thomas going to school, with what he knows, will bring us waay too much." Sam's word brought me back to the conversation.

"Dunno, man, we might need the extra eyes and ears; kids talk a lot more about weird shit than adults." Dean looked at me. "Can you pretend like you've never been to school before?"

I thought it over. Was it possible to pretend to be illiterate? I knew how to read simple things like, 'the fire truck is red' and 'My bike is blue' by the time I was four. My math skills were, and still are, total shit, so that part wouldn't be an act, but faking stupid seemed like a long shot.

"Think you could?" Sam asked when it took too long for me to answer.

"I… I s'pose."

"Guess that's it, then." Dean stood and brushed off the back of his pants. "Now we just gotta find someplace to bunk down, get a bath, and…," he hesitated slightly, "and get jobs."

I hopped down off the bench as Sam stood, feeling like a dwarf between the two of them.

* * *

Dean and Sam 'rock-paper-scissors'-ed it out to see which of them would be doing the talking to Mrs. Snider about getting rooms and paying for a bath.

When Dean lost I laughed, and then got glared at for it.

* * *

"Why do I hafta go whit' ye?"

"I told you why."

"Rather pull glass outta a mout' wound."

"Tough." Dean grabbed the shoulder of my shirt, tugging me closer to the store. "You need new clothes, and I don't know what'll fit you." He grimaced and paused for a second, breathing through his teeth.

"Are ye a'right?"

"Yeah, bruises don't like me."

I felt like such an ass.

The bell over the door tinkled, but Mrs. Olson wasn't behind the counter. That was a relief to both of us.

Dean gave me a slight grin and went over to a shelf labeled 'second-hand men's clothes' to pull things out and examine their sizes.

I walked over to the shelf that said 'second-hand boys' clothes.'

After finding what I needed, and handing them off to Dean, I wandered around the shop to look at stuff.

Antiques can be pretty cool; personally, I think the books, hand tools, political or club buttons, and kitchen things like meat grinders are way more interesting than furniture and old clothes. Seeing all those things in their actual era was a weird rush. A kerosene lamp, with a hand-painted glass cover, would go for at least a grand in 2016 if it was mint condition. In The Olson Mercantile, it was only a dollar. That really blew my mind.

I picked up a small pillow, admiring the depiction of a deer grazing in a winter field. Whoever embroidered it had an incredible eye for detail. Putting that back in its spot, I saw a silver fork with an extra wide third prong. "What's this fer?"

"Why, you little thief!" Mrs. Olson shrieked, grabbing my shirt collar and yanking me toward the counter. "Come here!"

"I-."

"Turn out your pockets!" Looming over me, she waved a feather duster in my face. "**Now**."

"Whoa, back off, lady," Dean was suddenly there, pushing himself between Mrs. Olsen and me.

"This boy is **stealing**," she said, reaching for me. "Make him turn out his pockets!"

"I-I were jus' loo-lookin' at it!" That was hardly more than a strangled whisper.

On hearing my accent, she scoffed. "A **likely** story," Mrs. Olson yanked me back toward her, "now turn them out!" Her fingers dug into my shoulders as she shook me back and forth hard enough to make me thunk the back of my head on the counter. "What did you take, you **filthy** little papist?"

"Hey!" Dean pushed her. "**That's enough**."

"Don't you put your hands on me!" She turned toward the door that opened to the inventory room. "NELS."

"What's going on?" Nels came rushing into the store, wiping his hands on the sides of his pants. When he saw Dean, he clenched his fists. "Let go of my wife!"

Dean pulled me behind him. "She attacked my cousin!"

"He's a thief!"

Nels looked at me, to Dean, and then to his wife. "Did you **see** the boy actually take anything, Harriett?"

She tugged at the bottom of her shirt, straightening it. "Well, no, but…"

He stared down at me. "Did you take anything, boy?"

I shook my head; my voice was stuck.

"Thomas," Dean put a hand on my shoulder and steered me toward the door. "Go back to the room; I'll deal with them."

"No! Nels, tie him up! I don't trust that little **tramp**!"

My stomach began to clench and breathing was suddenly impossible. I didn't like all the shouting, the way my hands shook, or how the room was blurring.

"Back the fuck off, both of you!" Dean yelled, incredibly close to my head.

I squeaked, hiccupped, and then felt my eyes start watering.

Someone lifted me off the ground suddenly, walking away from the noise really fast.

* * *

Once Sam had calmed me down, I had to endure being poked and prodded by Dr. Baker.

"It's probably mild heat exhaustion," the craggy older man said from behind the green curtain that separated the examination room from the front of his office. "Likely, that's why he had a nervous attack."

"What do we do for it?"

I really hoped Dr. Baker wasn't about to prescribe me laudanum, or some other heroin-based drug. Rather down twelve shots of whiskey at once than take a sip of that shit.

"Have him spend today in bed, and be sure he drinks plenty of water. Warm water, though; cold water will be too much of a shock and it might cause a brain fever." Dr. Baker moved something around, causing bottles to clink together. "If he doesn't improve tomorrow, I'll take another look at him."

* * *

The room was marginally cooler, since Sam had put a thick blanket up over the window to block the sunlight, but it was hard to stay asleep. I kept waking up in a frantic, sweaty panic if I heard loud noises from outside.

It helped to listen to the scritch of a pen on paper, and the occasional tapping on an inkwell. Sometimes Dean would swear and crumple whatever he was working on. "Man, my hand's all cramped and my eyes're sore as a motherfucker," he muttered. "How the hell did people even work like this?"

Rolling over, I stared at the flickering of the lamp and the play of shadows and light. I wanted to say something, crack a joke maybe, but nothing would come.

He saw me move. "Hey."

I managed a slight shrug.

"Gone mute again?"

Nod.

Dean sighed and leaned his chair back against the wall. "Would've gotten work over at that mill, but my ribs are still bruised to shit from the accident." He gestured to a pile of papers. "Made an arrangement with Mrs. Snider to help her out with a bunch of… accounting stuff. I do all this shit for her, she'll cook us supper."

Sitting up, I scooted to the edge of the bed.

"What's up?"

Making the motion for wanting to write, I reached toward the table.

"Uh… no can do, man. Sorry." Dean shook his head. "I suck at using these stupid pens, can't spare the paper."

I wanted to ask what was going to happen to us, if he had any ideas of how we'd gotten there, or how we were going to get back, but my mouth felt glued shut. Pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, I tried to push tears back inside.

The bed sank to my right. "Whoa, hey, it's alright." Dean awkwardly patted my back. "Look, I get you're freaked out right now, and probably feeling pretty sick, but me and Sam got your back, okay?" He smirked. "Besides, could be a lot worse."

I wiped my nose on my sleeve before scowling up at him.

"We could've wound up in the Mayberry drunk tank."

* * *

Dean practically inhaled his bowl of venison stew like he hadn't eaten in a year. "Oh my God," he said between bites. "This stuff's **awesome**."

I pushed a chunk of bread through the bowl with my spoon. It was good, but way too much for my stomach to handle. I'd only gotten through maybe half of my own portion. "D'ye want th' rest o'mine?"

Sam glanced over. "You barely touched any of it."

Dean looked up. "You okay, Thomas?"

I shrugged.

"Too much?"

I nodded.

"Okay." He pulled the bowl toward him.

"Dean!"

"He can't handle too much food right now," he said, glaring at Sam. "You try to force him to eat, he'll just throw it right back up."

"You don't know that for sure; he didn't say anything."

I looked at Sam and glared.

"You need-."

Dean cut him off. "Hey, Thomas, you feel like you can handle food tonight?"

I shook my head; just the **idea** of eating made me feel sick.

He turned to Sam. "See? He knows what he needs."

"But-."

"But you're pulling crap out of your ass." Dean jabbed his spoon into what remained of my stew. "You don't have experience dealing with kids when they get sick," he looked over at me, "no offense," and continued when I waved off the apology, "so don't talk at me like you're an expert."

Sam didn't look convinced. "What, and **you** are?"

"Which one of us took over the parenting when dad left us alone in the motels for weeks, **Samuel**?" Dean used The Tone.

Sam looked down at his own food.

"You see this shit, Thomas?" Dean shook his head. "We go out of our way to teach them everything we know, and…" he sighed dramatically, "they turn around and claim that they're the geniuses who came up with it all."

That made me laugh a little bit. "Shoulda done what I tried; stuck 'im in a plastic crate an' sent him down a creek whit' a sang'widge, a kiss on th' forehead, an' a teddy bear."

"Aw, man," Sam groaned, "not you too."

"One too many mouths?" Dean asked. "What was your load?"

"I've four under me; two brothers, two sisters."

Dean pointed his spoon at me. "You tried ditching a sister with the Moses trick, didn't you?"

"Sure, why not when I'd one extra what wasn't doin' much?" I frowned, "She were too heavy fer th' crate ta float, though."

"Yeah, that happens." He nodded sympathetically. "I tried giving Sam away once; had him in a nice cardboard box with my drawings on it and everything. Totally decked out with the best blankets and cookies." He chewed on a bite of bread for a few seconds. "Didn't work, though; nobody wanted a two-year-old. Probably would've had more luck if he wasn't able to actually **talk** to anybody. Wouldn't stop yammering."

Sam's eyes went wide. "You **what**?"

"Hey, I was **six**," Dean said with a shrug.

"You tried to **sell** me?!"

"Nooo, I tried **giving** you away. Big difference."

"**ALRIGHT**. Jesus." Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry that I ever questioned your child-raising skills."

Dean sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Aaand?"

He sighed. "And I'm sorry, Thomas, that I tried… parenting at you when you didn't need it."

"You should be really glad we didn't start swapping embarrassing baby stories about little brothers, Sammy. Your face would get so red it'd explode." Looking smug, Dean finished off the last of my stew.

"Grow the fuck up, jackass." Sam got up. "I'm goin' for a walk."

* * *

I shifted uncomfortably on the outside edge of the bed.

"This is embarrassing."

"Shut your cake-hole and go to sleep. At least you're not squished down the crack on the wall side."

"Can't believe I'm in bed with my brother and a twelve-year-old."

"Oh my **GOD**, Sam!" Dean groaned. "What's **wrong** with you?"

I buried my face into the pillow, trying really hard not to laugh.

"What….JESUS, Dean! What the fuck's wrong with **you**?"

"Whoa, don't turn that on me, man, **you're** the one who said it."

"I didn't mean it like **that**, you sicko!"

"Suure you didn't."

"Dude, you're such a pervert."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

_Soot and dust spouted up from the chimney, like a dusty dragon lived in our home, when the roof fell. _

_Grandma was still in there, in her bed.  
I'd never seen Da scream like that before._

_Some of the men who'd pulled us from our house had held him down when the others started hauling their ropes._

_I clung to Mam's shirt while she held Da's head in her lap; they were both shaking and crying as bad as me._

_Where would we go now that our house was all smashed up?_

_A three-sided lean-to thing made from broken rafters and thatch, became our home for the night. Da had avoided the corner where Grandma's body was, unable to even look there._

_It was cold, and the rain was coming down thick like ice slush. With a whine, I pushed myself under Mam's arm. _

_Mam stared out into the dark, not speaking. _

"_It's not the end of us yet," Da said._

_She didn't look at him. _

_I hurt all over, and my belly growled. Crawling into her lap, I put my arms around her and kissed her cheek. It was all I had for her. _

* * *

THUD.

I blinked around the room, not sure where I was for a few seconds. "Oww." Rubbing the back of my head, I considered getting back into the bed.

Nah.

I stared at the ceiling for a while; that dream had been incredibly vivid and left me in a cold sweat. This child, whoever I was inhabiting, was a Famine survivor.

Jesus Christ.

I grew up on stories of The Famine; my mom's family had inherited a cultural phobia of running out of food that was never truly assimilated away, despite being born and raised in Wisconsin for about four generations.

I've also gone hungry before. I know that terror you get when your body is so drained and empty that you can hardly walk anymore; the shakes, the dizziness, that unrelenting clawing in your stomach….

Shuddering, I closed my eyes and focused on the people in that dream.

The man had looked a lot like one of the pictures my grandma had of her dad. He had black hair that stood up in an unruly mess in the back, but his eyes were the same gray-blue as mine.

His wife, my 'mam,' could've been a sister to my cousin Jenny.

Both of my dream 'parents' looked like they hadn't eaten in months.

So, on top of what happening in this insane universal fuck-up that had me **nearly getting shot** and then traveling in the world of Little House on the Prairie with the two main characters of Supernatural, now I was getting traumatic ancestral memories seared into my head.

**What the fuck was the point of it?**

At some point, I caught myself drifting, and in that stage between sleep there were flashes of images.

* * *

_Gabriel's face loomed in front of mine. He was shouting something, and from the look on his face it was meant to be a warning. I couldn't hear the words. _

I woke up, startled. Looking around, I saw Sam's arm dangling off the edge of the bed, his fingers twitching right above my forehead. For a few seconds, I had the urge to flick at them and see what he'd do. So tempting.

* * *

"_YOU. DO. __**NOT**__. CROSS. YOUR. SELF. AFTER. PRAYERS." The thin cane emphasized each word. "AND. YOU. WILL. __**NOT**__. USE. THE. DEVIL'S. TONGUE. IN. THIS. . ." He turned the last word into four agonizing blows. _

_Blood trickled down my bare shoulders as I shrieked from the pain._

_The Headmaster shoved me away from him before standing to straighten his jacket and waistcoat. "If I see __**one **__more report against you, I will have you sent out. Am I understood?" _

_Sniffing back tears and wiping my eyes, I nodded. "Ye-yes, sir." _

"_Stop that noise at once," He backhanded me across the face. "Ungrateful vermin."_

_I swallowed down a choking lump. "Ye-yes, sir."_

"_Get back down to the work floor."_

"_Ye-yes sir." _

"_I want five pounds of oakum from you by the time the supper bell is rung, or you do not eat tonight. If it is any less than that, you will be picking until midnight. Am I clear?"_

"_Yes, sir." _

* * *

There were tears streaming down my face and I could still feel an ache in my shoulders where the headmaster had struck with the birch switch. Those hadn't felt like dreams. Wiping my eyes, I sat up and looked around at the room that still wasn't mine, and heard the deep breathing of Dean and Sam up on the bed.

I got up and went over to the window, stared down at the mill and watched it rain for a while. It was still dark, probably around midnight. Leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I tried to force the images of those dreams from my head.

Staring down at Hansen's mill, I wondered if maybe the essence that made up ME was possessing that kid's body.

That didn't make sense though, because I **knew** that the body was mine; I was just younger and turned cis-male. How could I be 'possessing' myself?

Well, if I was going to be so literal about it, I technically already was. All human beings are really just sprits riding around in their own personal meat-suits, since whatever it is that makes us…us is, at its fundamental core, a form of spiritual possession. And that particular line of reasoning could spiral into something so convoluted that taking it any further started to give me metaphysical vertigo. I rolled my eyes. "Can't believe I'm havin' a whole internal feckin' discourse on metaphysical philosophy in me head, an' I'm feckin' **twelve**."

Were the memories coming from a ghost, maybe? Some broken, scared kid's ghost saw a chance to interact and touch the world again, so he jumped in for a ride?

It was the only thing I could think of that made any kind of sense to me.

The worst year of the Famine was 1847, and the Little House on the Prairie show was supposed to take place between 1871 and…whatever year it supposedly was on the day its last episode aired.

An **actual** Famine survivor who had been six or seven at that time would have to be almost 28 years old, so getting memory flashes from the ghost of a Famine victim made a little more sense. Sort of.

Maybe.

"You alright?" A hand clasped over my left shoulder.

I whirled around, heart nearly thudding its way out of my nose, gripped the windowsill and tried to press myself as flat as I could against the wall and window.

"Whoa." Sam backed up. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

I couldn't look at him.

"Why're you up?"

All I could manage was a shrug.

He stood there for a minute, evidently trying to figure me out. "Um. I'm goin' back to bed. Just making sure you're okay."


End file.
